I just returned from Doc Steinbrau’s office where I had a bit of a scare. It turns out that I didn’t just have the clap, but a new, terrifyingly drug-resistant form of the clap.
Or as I like to call it, gonorrhea.
“Christ almighty, Oz,” Steinbrau said with a bemused look as he pored over some test results. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“What do you mean?” I said, warily. “It’s not AIDS, is it? Because that would really be bullshit, given that I’m neither gay nor a woman.”
“What? No, it’s not AIDS,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “You shouldn’t even joke about that. AIDS isn’t funny.”
“Well, you know what they say.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Comedy happens to you. Tragedy happens to me.”
“In that case, I find what you have to be hilarious,” he said.
“Oh? And what do I have?” I demanded. “Is it gonorrhea or isn’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s gonorrhea. But goddamn if this sumbitch isn’t resistant to just about everything! Penicillin, tetracycline, erythromycin, ciprofloxacin — nothing’s killing it off! I read about this shit, but didn’t expect to see a case of it in an upper class individual such as yourself.”
“Sweet Nixon’s Ghost,” I said, beginning to get genuinely worried. “Don’t tell me there’s nothing to be done about it?”
“Well, we’ll try some cephalosporins. But if that doesn’t work, you’re fucked!”
Fortunately they did work, and the inflammation is already dissipating. Which means I can get back to banging call girls again tomorrow night. What, you didn’t think I would take this as a wakeup call, did you? Get real, hippies; a life lived in fear isn’t worth living at all. Ta-ta.